


Fine Art

by calicoswritingkatts



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: ...but sexy art thief, Durincest, FiKi Week, Fili is kind of a little shit, Fíli POV, M/M, and needs to pay off his bugatti, art thief kili, catch me if you can - Freeform, fili and kili are not related, fili doesn't understand art, fili lives beyond his means, private investigator fili, then again so is kili
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 04:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11524116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calicoswritingkatts/pseuds/calicoswritingkatts
Summary: Fili is a private investigator hired by curator of the art gallery, Balin, to catch the supposed culprit of a painting worth 1.5 million dollars.As it turns out, the supposed culprit has something (maybe a few things...) Fili wants as well....





	Fine Art

**Author's Note:**

> My fill for Gathering Fiki's Fiki Week, Day Two - Inspired by Art! This came to me really, really, really randomly, and I just had to get it out of my head. I wrote this in about three or so hours off and on. I really, really, really love silly crime, catch- me-if-you-can scenarios, and I couldn't help myself! 
> 
> As stated, I wrote this pretty quickly, but I had a lot of fun (regardless of how bad it is, lol!) and intend to continue it. I hope you enjoy!

I stared at the large, rectangular space between two, apparently fine, pieces of art, screwing my face slightly as I looked down at the photo Google brought up for me on my mobile phone. I cocked a brow and looked back at the blank spot. The gap had a rather disfigured paint job in the center of a blank, white space, which glared back at me.  
“It’s been stolen,” answered Balin, his expression worried and agitated. “A priceless piece of art, stolen!” He shook his head uneasily.

I looked back down at my screen, and in a deadpan tone, said “This one, you say?”

“Yes. It’s worth 1.5 million dollars.” the curator stated, putting his hands on his hips and focusing on the blank spot on the wall where the framed art had once been only a day before.

I glanced down again at my mobile. What stared back at me was a hastily painted picture of two red circles on either and of a large canvas, against a blue background, which, quite frankly, made my eyes figuratively bleed. This piece of shit, I thought, was worth 1.5 million dollars. I clearly was in the wrong business.

Balin continued, “And because the police are useless in finding the whereabouts of the culprit, I’ve hired you.” I heard this nearly 3 times a year. I, a private investigator, hired because the police are incompetent at finding the culprit of a crime. In fact, I owed a lot to incompetent police officers for my line of work. This wasn't the first time the curator of the art gallery had hired me for a special investigation, although the first time was far less exciting. 

(I had investigated the tragic loss of his wallet, which turned out to be hidden in an unusual spot in his office. I had to be slightly more creative with this one as I had made up an elaborate story of how his wallet made it somehow to a secret vault underneath the gallery – which I should add doesn't exist - so he wouldn't feel foolish for leaving his wallet in a rather mundane place.)

 "We have a suspect, " Balin anxiously fiddled with his hands. "And this isn't the first time he's stolen a priceless piece of art."

There was a slight moment of silence as I turned my attention towards Balin again. 

"You mean you have a culprit?", I questioned, raising a brow to look toward the old, rotund curator. 

He answered me quicker than I had him, "Yes, and it's not the first time this ones been suspected of art theft."

I backed away slowly from the wall. I rub my short beard slightly. Well, what the help do you need me for? I thought to myself. 

"He manages to fly under everyone's radar.” Balin quickly shuffled through a folder of papers that I hadn't paid much attention to. “The police have been trying to catch him for a year.”

“And you need me to find him.” I added nonchalantly. 

I needed money, and I needed money quickly. I hadn't had a steady client for at least 6 months, and this was going to get me out of the red. Being the regions top private investigator paid well – unfortunately, I also decided, much to my mothers hesitation, and thanks to my idiocy, to live beyond my means, and the Bugatti nestled in my parking space at my high-end condo complex wasn't going to pay for itself. 

Also, business had been slow the last few months. Apparently, no one had goats missing, haunted houses, or husbands to spy on these days. 

Balin continued to shuffle through the papers he had in his hands continuing to blather on about something or other, while I has zoned out a few times continuing to stare at the questionable art that looked back at me on my mobile. Who would steal this? Why would they steal it? However, my initial question was, why on earth was this worth 1.5 million dollars? I probably painted something similar to this at the age of five in art class. Actually, I had a parakeet when I was ten that shit a pattern similar to this at the bottom of it's cage. Clearly, however, the culprit must have needed money, or was in some sort of art thieving ring. Why else would someone steal a hideous peice of artwork that was worth 1.5 million dollars? Certainly they weren't planning to hang this on their walls for the simple enjoyment of art. (Granted, that was what the gallery was doing, but I couldn't imagine a regular person actually liking it.) 

“...Oh, fiddlesticks, where is that picture...No.. not this one,” the gentle old curator dropped a few papers on the ground as I quickly zoned back into the present, bending down to pick up the loose papers that fell from his folder.

I held the papers in my hand until he reached out to grab them, looking over the fallen sheets of paper, “So, this culprit, “ I started, “Do we have a name? A motive? A M.O?”

Continuing to sort through the papers, putting the loose ones back into their designated spots in the pile, Balin answered, “Well, it seems he's interested in only one artist. In the last year he's stolen over ten Durinsson paintings. Each painting worth thousands or– such as in this case - millions.” 

I couldn't help but look up this particular artist as he was talking. Looking down at my mobile again, I searched the name in Google, and wasn't at all thrilled. The first thing I learned about my culprit according to Balin was either he had a favourite artist, or that he had incredible bad taste in what he considered “art”. 

“So he likes shapes and gaudy colours.” I muttered, I thought under my breath, but much louder then I had intended.

“A Sea of Purple Ashes is my favourite. The colours! The designs! The way the light hits it just right...” dreamily, Balin stopped flipping through his pile of papers to recall the painting. 

One of the first paintings that pulled up happened to be 'A Sea of Purple Ashes', which was a complete eyesore of purple lines against an offensive wash of - I didn't even know what to call that colour. I wasn't even sure you could call that purple, either, for the lines. Absolutely atrocious. It was simply hazardous to all five of my senses. 

(Possibly to any other senses I might also have past the fifth.)

Shortly after I metaphorically vomited up my lunch after viewing the disaster that revealed itself before me, Balin interrupted, thankfully saving my eyes from any more strain. “Ah. There we go.”

He pulled out a sheet – a picture, rather – from his pile of paper, and I turned slightly to note him, “You have a photo of 'im?”

“That we do, lad. Like I said, this isn't the first time he's done this.” He handed me the photograph. 

I felt my face drop, and all the blood rush from my head to my feet. Whatever blood was left ran cold, and my mouth went dry. I started to feel faint. 

“Y'alright, lad? You look like you've seen a ghost! You're very pale.” 

Him, I drew the photograph closer to my face, It's HIM. I studdered, “I'm...I'm fine. It's just..it's just a little hot in here, that's all.” I felt faint. 

Balin remarked, “You think? I often find it rather stuffy in here. I keep telling them to turn on the air conditioning, or else the clocks will start to melt!”

There was a slight pause before Balin chuckled, “Oh, I've been dying to use that on someone today.”

It took me a moment to understand what he meant, until I realized he had made a joke, “Ah, like Salvador Dali.” I decided to chuckle to humour him instead of face palm.

Balin, after spending a few moments proud of his joke, began once more on topic, “He's a crafty one, this one. He's slick, and a smooth talker. No one knows his real name, either. But, I gather you will be able to stop him. After all, you managed to find my pesky wallet!”

Oh, he's slick alright, “Him...” I said out loud, accidentally. 

“Yes. Him.” Balin put his hands on his hips, and paused slightly, “Oh, so you know him?”

“Do I ever, “ answering quietly, I licked my lips without realizing it, as colour was slowly returning to my face. At least, I hoped it was. 

I took a moment to look at Balin, my mouth still slightly agape; he raised a brow slightly, “Well, figures as much. He's been pretty popular in the news, particular on that – oh, what is it all those millennials are using these days- the internet. He slips right through everyone's fingers.”

He did more than slip through my fingers.

It was an early Saturday afternoon; I had met him at a garage sale. I had noticed a tall, dark haired man with trouble written all over him flipping through a bunch of frames of various sizes, all encasing pieces of art. I had previously sorted through the frames, and had picked out a piece that I thought would go well above my dresser. My mother had suggested on numerous occasions that I put something there to fill up the blank space. Nearly every visit, she would wander into my room and fuss at me to get something. I thought I would put an end to it – since to be perfectly frank, I wasn't fond of my mother walking into my bedroom unannounced – and I had chosen an interesting framed canvas of what I assumed was a bird painted by someone who must have taken some sort of pill that put them in a very, very creative mood. Either way, it would fill the empty gap and my mother would finally shut up about it. 

I introduced myself, subtly, “How about that one?” 

Mocha eyes glanced up at me, a smirk dashed across a suave face with a five o'clock shadow, “How about that one?” He cocked his head towards the painting in my hand, “That's what I'm looking for.”

I let out a small laugh, “Too late, I bought it.” I lifted it slightly with both hands, glancing, “Nice, right?”

He chuckled, “Yeah. Yeah, it is.” He pushed loose strands of hair from his eyes, “How much did you get that for?” 

“Five dollars,” I answered, grinning.

He humphed, “You don't say.” 

Before I knew it, I had also taken home a soup ladle, a fork and knife set, and a tall, dark haired, mocha eyed man who looked like trouble. 

....It also wasn't long before he had me pinned against the living room wall like a moaning Mona Lisa, and threw me on the bed and made a canvas out of my body with his tongue. 

On Sunday morning, standing completely in the nude, I stood, holding two cups of coffee in either hand, at the entrance of my bedroom. Suddenly I found myself watching a fully clothed dark haired mocha eyed man who looked like trouble, with his fully clothed body reaching out to grab the painting I had just bought the day before hanging above my dresser. 

I was about to speak- although I wasn't sure what to say exactly -before he did, “Oh, hey, Goldie-locks.” - he had called me that all night, I assumed he was referring to my hair - “I was wondering where you were.” He fidgeted with the painting, seemingly trying to remove it from the wall. “I didn't think you'd be up so early, or were in the can -did you superglue this here or what?”

I nearly dropped the coffee I held, “Oh, see, my mother was thinking that I should have a painting there, or something, so that's why I put that there...Don't you like it? Should I move it elsewhere?” 

He fidgeted some more before finally pulling it down, knocking over a vase from the dresser, it crashing onto the floor, the contents displaying themselves on the rug laying on the floor. “Oh, I like it plenty.” He put it under his arm, “Sorry about the vase.”

“Hey, wait, what are you doing?!” I actually did drop the coffee, “Are you...are you taking that painting?!” 

He stopped directly in front of me, I still in the nude with two shattered mugs now smashed on the floor beside me. Hot coffee was running down my leg, that I didn't initially pay attention to at first. “It's been fun.” He gently grabbed my chin with his free hand and lifted it slightly. He pressed his lips against mine before he playfully bit my bottom lip before releasing, “By the way, I've got my eye on that one behind you, too.”

Flustered, I quickly turned my head behind me, “What? That?” A small abstract painting of what I thought were letters or numbers was what I had figured he was talking about. 

His face was still close to mine, and once again he smirked, “I might have to come back for that one, Goldie-locks.” 

Trouble – I didn't even know what his name was – planted a long, passionate kiss on my lips again before dashing towards my living room. Still in the nude I regained my senses and followed him, the hot coffee now scolded my thigh, causing me to wince in pain slightly. I saw Trouble fidgeting with the lock on the door of the patio, until he finally set it free. He then reached towards a cushion on one of the patio chairs, and threw it at me, seemingly to cover myself from the views of the other condominium residents. 

Fumbling with the cushion, I placed it as best as I could against myself, “Wait, where are you going? Come back! My painting! Hey! HEY! ” 

It was then that he immediately jumped off the third floor patio, and, to my surprise, landed relatively unharmed with my painting, which fumbled a bit in his escape. Regaining his balance, he took off as quick as a tom cat. 

I exited through the open door to my patio, still in the nude with my cushion covering myself, and yelled out to him. “So you'll call tomorrow?!”

After that incident, I learned, to my utter dismay, that the painting was much more valuable then I had realized. The painting turned out to be, ironically, a Durinsson, and worth 2.6 million dollars. How it ended up being sold for five dollars at a junk sale was a surprise to me. Not only would that random painting have gotten me out of the red,but I could have paid off my Bugatti and maybe considered retiring – I could have, quite possibly, sold it to some art snob for much more than it was worth.

That was three weeks ago. Now, Trouble looked back at me, same smirk, with same mocha coloured eyes, taunting me and making me feverish once more. “You're sure he is the right one?” 

Balin took the picture back out of my hands, and frustrated, he replied back, “I can't be so sure, but I have a really good feeling this is the culprit.” 

As did I. 

He began again, “I trust since you seem to know this fellow, you should have no problem figuring out where he is, and bringing back this valuable piece of artwork.” He started to shove the picture back in the folder. “Besides, it was covering up that one miserable paint job. Do you see it? I can see anything but that damned spot....” He lost his train of thought momentarily, but then began to pull the picture back out of the folder. “Oh, my dear boy, do you need the photo? I can be so absent-minded these days.” 

I answered back, “No, not at all. I know exactly who I'm looking for.” 

“Ah! That's the spirit!” jovially Balin remarked back, before focusing on the unsightly spot on the wall, “In the meantime, I will have to put something there... My word, it's so ghastly!” 

Before turning on my heel to make my exit from the gallery, I remembered the small painting of shapes and numbers Trouble had his eye on three weeks ago. “Besides. I have something I think he wants.”

Likewise, he had something of mine that I wanted back.


End file.
